I Might Be Late
by Iamnotdavestrider
Summary: Your name is Dave Strider and you're living the dream, going to college with your best friends in Washington, including a certain John Egbert-your best bro. That all changes when John gets himself into a car crash, and goddamn, why is everything so difficult all of a sudden?
1. Chapter 1

Your name is Dave Strider, and you're sitting in a little café that's very clean and very warm, complete with cozies on the seats and waitresses that act like they're some hybrid of your mother and your best friend. Right now, one of them keeps glancing over at you, looking sympathetic. She thinks you're being stood up just because you've been there for an hour already and you asked for a table for two. Well, you'll show her.

Your fingers drum the table. A half drunken cup of coffee sits next to them, pretty cold by now because you'd ordered it when you'd first come in. You'd be worried, but it isn't like him being late is anything new. You'd be irritated too, but you don't really blame the guy, working two part time jobs in addition to college and all. Well, you do the whole college thing too, but a lot of it's based online and you're piggybacking the college fund you didn't know your bro had for you as far as income's concerned. How he does it is beyond you, but hey, you're not going to hold the occasional tardiness against him.

You pull out your phone, rereading your messages, making one hundred percent sure you're in the right place (you'd had a misunderstanding once before, ending up with both of you sitting in different places for an hour—god, that had been a nightmare), and it is.

EB: dave dave do you want to go out tomorrow?!

TG: nah

EB: really? :((

TG: yeah dude sorry but i'd rather chill at home by myself than go out with my best friend

TG: got news that someone's challenging my title as god of doing absofuckinglutely nothing

TG: need to maintain my street cred, y'know?

EB: oh, ok.

TG: dude chill i was kidding

TG: how have you not picked up on this

TG: sarcasm

TG: it's a thing i do

TG: it's more frequent than your nic cage references

TG: and that's really saying something egbert

EB: oh…cool!

EB: psh sorry that you can't get the Cage maybe that's why I don't always get your "irony"!

TG: egbert please abstain from such comparisons my irony at its lowest level is still out of cage's league

TG: you're killing me here

EB: haha! well, do you want to go out then?

TG: yes i fucking want to go out. got somewhere in mind?

EB: yeah there's a really good place my bio teacher told me about!

TG: ok cool you gonna send me the address or what

EB:…

EB: oh yeah, sorry!

EB: by the way, i might be a little late. :(

TG: that's new

EB: sorry! :((

TG: it's cool. i'll see you tomorrow

EB: :D

And that was how it had gone—but this was definitely the place. He hadn't picked up his phone or answered the texts you'd sent out about ten minutes ago, and ten minutes before that, so you decide not to try again for another few.

So you just sit there, looking somewhat fondly at your phone, though most people can't tell, as you don't let your mouth so much as twitch and you're wearing your shades, like normal. For the longest time, pesterchum had been your sole communication to the, admittedly, only real friends you had. Until you moved up to Washington, partially to be with the only people you really cared about besides your bro, partially for college, your phone was sometimes the only thing that could really make you smile. And after a while, when the person pestering you had blue text…

Forget it. That's what you'd come here to talk about. Today was the day you'd decided you'd tell him after years—literally, years—of putting it off. Your finals were over starting today, and you'd be getting your B.A.s within the next week, so if it freaked him out, he'd still have that to keep him happy.

Despite the fact that you'd been looking at it, when your phone rings, it startles you. You answer it and put it up to your ear without looking at who it's from, assuming it's him, and start talking.

"Hey Egbert, pretty late, aren't you?"

"Am I talking to Mr. Dave Strider?"

A hole seems to have started burning in your stomach. The voice is a very professional sounding one, and though it could mean many different things, your first thought is that something bad has happened.

"Yeah, that's me. Who is this?"

"I work at the local hospital. You were named as one of the contacts to be informed should anything happen to Mr. John Egbert."

And just like that, you're almost ready to lose your shit. Your hand's started shaking without your being able to control, and goddammit, just ask him what's happened. But you can't. Luckily, the man continues without being prompted.

"I'm very sorry, but John Egbert was in a severe accident and has been hospitalized. He is currently undergoing surgery in the ICU. His chances of making it aren't as good as we'd like them to be."

The waitress who'd been eyeing you comes over to your table, as if sensing something wrong. She frowns at you, and asks you if there is. Your head moves in her direction, but you're somewhere else. You don't—can't answer her.

The man waits patiently on the phone for a couple minutes. Your breathing gets faster and faster, and you feel like you're going to choke. How could this happen _now? _Things were supposed to be going good for him now! He was on his way to getting his degree. And now…

"Can I see him?" you choke out.

"Not during surgery, no. I'm sorry. But you can come now, if you'd like, and wait outside."

"Okay," you whisper, and hang up the phone. Your hand is still sort of shaking but you've gone numb besides that, and your mind feels completely white. The waitress who'd come over was patiently quiet until you hung up the phone, but now she's talking again.

"Is something the matter?"

"I…I've got to get to the hospital."

Her brow furrows. "You can't drive right now. Look at you!"

You stagger to your feet. "No, you don't understand I need to go, now!"

She nods sympathetically. "C'mon, I'll drive you."

And something inside your head says '_don't get into cars with strange women'_ but it doesn't even matter because _he's _hurt and all you know is that you need to be there right now.

"Thanks but I can drive myself." You try to push past her. She grabs your arm.

"You're either waiting from an ambulance to come, or I'm driving you. You're gonna get yourself killed, driving in the state you are now."

"I don't have time to wait for an ambulance to come."

"Then I'm driving you. My shifts already over, anyways. Don't waste more time arguing."

So you don't, and the next thing you know, you're sitting in the backseat of a strangers Toyota, and then you're in the local hospital with the waitress's firm grip steadying your shoulder, and you're asking the front desk man where you could find a John Egbert, and he's smiling pityingly as he looks up which ICU John is in, and you're just getting so sick and tired of all the pity because it's only been something like a half hour now and it's already too much. He gives you the number and you leave as quickly as you can, trying to get away from the man and his sympathy and wishing the waitress would just leave you alone instead of insisting she accompany you. You find the room and sit outside, noting the red light above it and generally feeling like your heart has fallen somewhere into your stomach.

You think you must've dozed off, because the next thing you know, the waitress is shaking you and the light has turned green. You look around wildly, and realize you've been awakened because a doctor has approached and wants to talk to you.

"You're Dave Strider?"

"…yeah."

"Nice to meet you Mr. Strider."

"Not really." You're being an asshole and you know, but he smiles that understanding smile and _goddammit _people can really just stop trying to be so understanding because they really don't understand how you feel at all.

"It's okay to be upset."

"Yeah."

"But you'll be glad to hear that I have good news." He eyes your face, and you're desperately trying to keep your heart, which seems to have found its way out of your stomach and back into where it belongs, from pounding out of your chest.

"Mr. Egbert's surgery was successful. He's going to need to be hospitalized for a minimum of two weeks, however"

"Two weeks."

"That's correct."

"But he's going to be okay."

"Yes. He sustained multiple head injuries and broke a few ribs, but nothing that will be permanent. His surgery stopped the internal bleeding."

You're speechless for a second. Luckily, the waitress, again, covers for you. "What happened?"

The doctor clears his throat at that. "From what we have gathered, your friend cut a light very close and it turned from yellow to red just before he passed through. Another truck wasn't stopping, and it t-boned him."

And again your heart falls—because this is _your _fault. He was hurrying to meet you, and if he'd driven a little more carefully, if you hadn't made him feel like it was so urgent to get there to see you, maybe he wouldn't be in this mess.

The doctor turns to you again. "You can go see him now, if you want, but he probably won't wake up for a few hours because of the anesthetics we gave him. He's in room 112"

You nod, and you think you hear yourself thank the doctor. Then you sit back down, and you put your face in your hands. The waitress, who must be exhausted by now, nevertheless rubs your back and makes comforting noises.

It doesn't help. You think you might be crying, but it's not really because your sad, and more because you're drained and exhausted and angry at yourself. If he hadn't thought he needed to rush to meet you, because of your making him think you hated his being late, he'd be okay. Your name is Dave Strider, and you're sure this is all your fault.


	2. Chapter 2

Your name is John Egbert, and you feel like you're about to collapse—in the good sort of way. You've just finished all your exams, and you're about to go meet your best bro for dinner. What could be better?

You grab your phone from the plastic bin the proctor made you stick it in—as if you would cheat—and turn it on. A couple missed texts. A couple missed calls. Whoops. But the last ones were fairly recent—just a minute or two ago. You consider texting him back, but you decide that you'd rather just step on it and get going. Irrational? Maybe. But you have a very important mission tonight.

And that mission is to ask your very best friend, Dave Strider, to go out with you.

You're pretty sure he'll decline—he's always talking about slick moves to try out on women—and it's not like you've been especially good at giving him subtle hints that you're interested. To be fair, it was only a couple of Rose's mind-draining "psychoanalyst" sessions—god, if her patients leave her room alive, she's going to be the best psychiatrist ever—a week ago for you to come to terms with it yourself. It had involved a lot of stubborn screaming "I am not a homosexual" (you) and a fair amount of "but you can still want to be intimate with Dave" (her).

You step into your car—a 1977 AMC Gremlin, which is cool, no matter how many times Dave tells you it really "reflects your taste in movies"—and nearly kill the engine as you back out. God, you're really nervous—you're actually a really, really good driver. Normally.

You're about half way there when your phone buzzes. You grit your teeth—you're not irritated with him, but you are irritated with this light—why won't it change already? After what seems like forever, it does. The next light's green—excellent, you seem to have been hitting every red on your way there. Just your luck, you suppose. But as you get closer, it turns to yellow.

And then you do something really stupid. Normally, you'd just come to a stop—you really are a great driver in ordinary situations. But your phone is ringing now, and you know that Dave is probably in the restaurant right now, getting totally fed up, and god you need to get there while he's still there and not in an irreversibly bad mood. So you speed up a little bit, praying that you'll make it through the light. You think you may have seen the light change a blurry second before you're rushing through the intersection.

Except you're not. Everything's confusing, because you're not. You can't move and you feel something warm on your chest and it's really uncomfortable. And your car isn't moving. Your head's on the dashboard but you can't move it and you feel like you should be in some sort of pain but all you know is that you're not sure what happened and that alone fills your mind.

You think you can hear some swearing and some screaming, and maybe, after an indefinite amount of time, the faint sound of sirens. But maybe that's just what you're hoping for.

Some insane fraction of your mind drifts away before the rest, and wonders if Dave will find out or if he'll storm home, angry that you didn't show, or if he'll sit there all night waiting for you. You wonder how he'll find out and if he'll be upset that you got yourself into something so very stupid and how much he'll care. The last thought that goes through your head is that yes, you're definitely going to be late, and then goddammit you think the pain has started setting in, and all at once too, in a wave that makes you want to scream.

Then your head goes black, and the next thing you know, you're sitting in a hospital room.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing you notice is the pain. It's not as bad as it was the night before, but it's there, starting when you wake up and it doesn't go away. Your head is throbbing and you don't want to touch it, afraid of what you'll find. You're also not entirely sure you have the strength to lift your arms, anyhow. Your chest feels simultaneously tight and like it's being pierced, like the time Dave accidentally chased you around your apartment with a pair of scissors and accidentally cut you. Well, you _hope _it was an accident. The way he was brought up, he might've thought that scissors were nothing compared to the shitty swords him and his bro were throwing around all the time. Whatever.

The second is that the room's white and plain and boring and ugly. Your glasses were removed, but even with your terrible unaided vision, you can tell that. You try to sit up, but your muscles feel weak and you feel a hand on your arm gently, but firmly, stopping you.

"Doc says you should stay down for a bit. Take it easy." You don't recognize the voice, and when you look towards it source, you don't recognize the face either. It belongs to a blonde woman who vaguely resembles Rose. You're pretty sure you've never met her in your life.

"Who…?" You let the question trail off. She smiles.

"My name's Roxy. I drove Dave here after he looked like he was going into shock last night."

"Going into shock?"

"He got the call while he was in my restaurant."

"Oh."

Everything that happened the night before comes back to you all at once, all of the feelings, and all the thoughts. You remember wondering if he would be mad at you, and you swallow, looking around the room for a sign of him. Your heart drops a little when you don't see one.

"Is he…"

She guesses what you want to say again. "He's gone to go get lunch."

"Lunch?"

"It's two in the afternoon, honey. He didn't want to leave your side, but after noon he started pacing and muttering so I told him I was hungry and to buy me some food at the cafeteria to try to get him to calm down."

"Oh."

She smiles understandingly at you. "He was here all night. He came as soon as he found out, you know."

"Oh." You wish you had something more interesting to say, but suddenly you're feeling extremely tired again and you don't have the strength to be your normal outgoing, friendly self. You're normally glad to meet people, whether or not they help you out for no gain on their part, but right now, all you can muster is a soft "thanks."

She nods.

She doesn't feel the need to chatter excessively, so you sit quietly together, waiting for Dave to come back. You feel like you could nod off right there, right then, but you feel like you want to see him. He could probably help make the pain go away. Even more important, you think you owe it to him to at least talk to him a little bit before drifting off again.

Eventually, he comes in, and in typical Dave Strider fashion, he doesn't come in quietly.

"Hey Rox they didn't have turkey so you're gonna have to do corned beef. Sucks to suck. And I couldn't carry two drinks so we're just going to have to share my coke. I don't think they really bought the whole "my friend is over 21" thing there anyways. Whatever. So—" he stops midsentence, looking up and finally seeing your eyes open. You smile weakly.

Some people think it's hard to tell what he's thinking, because he tries to hide it, normally, and not just with his shades. But dealing with him as your best friend for years has its perks. Just like blind people learn to use their other senses better, you've learned to read his other movements. Even only seeing him as a blurry shape, you think you can normally tell what's on his mind.

But not now. For some reason, right now, you just can't. He looks at you, and you can't find any cues to pick up on. He swallows, but doesn't say anything, and you sit in awkward silence.

Finally, you decide to break it. "I'm sorry."

He laughs at that, but not his normal laugh, at not even his "wow you're so funny John" high-pitched laugh. It's strangled and unnatural. He runs a hand through his hair.

"Sorry? Why the hell do you need to be sorry?"

You frown at him. "Sorry for getting into the accident. Sorry for making you worry." You watch him as you talk, and you think you can feel him becoming incredulous, and being able to sense his emotions again is not an entirely uncomfortable feeling. "Sorry for being late."

You're not sure why you said that last bit, because it was a little ridiculous and even you know it. Except it wasn't, because it _wasn't _cool. You had asked him to go out on a night you knew you'd probably be late on, because you were selfish. You wanted to finish your exams and ask him out on the same day, because you wanted to get everything stressful to you done at the same time, never mind how it affected him.

As predicted, something seems flare up inside of him, and he marches over to you. Instead of shouting like you expect him to, or at least give you a stern talking to, he just takes a seat next to your bed, on the other side of Roxy, and shakes his head, even smiling a little bit. Then he takes your hand.

"Just go to sleep Egbert. We'll talk about this when you're not all tired and traumatized and shit."

You wonder if you should try to say something more, maybe apologize or argue or something, but the energy you were saving for this conversation seems to have left you and putting off until later sounds really, really good. Also, falling asleep holding Dave's hand doesn't sound that bad.

So you do.


	4. Chapter 4

Truth be told, you thought something would have drastically changed after the first time John woke up. Sure, you'd had sleepovers before, even basically fallen asleep on each other, but holding his hand that day had seemed like an entirely new level of intimacy, ignoring the actual amount physical contact involved. The way you saw it, he had just been through something big, something traumatic, and was definitely still in a lot of pain—you could see it as he moved, slower than normal, even as he refused to talk about it. And yet he trusted you. He trusted you and he apologized, and even though he didn't need to, and you felt guilty about liking it, he did apologize. You were his priority. That had felt good.

But nothing really did change. The two of you probably would have spent most waking seconds together anyhow, the only difference being that you were doing it at a hospital now. You didn't have any more moments like you did on the first day, probably partially because that afternoon, Rose and Jade arrived from their all-girls school a couple hours away, and spent most of the next few days with you, and with him. You played board games and laughed at shitty sitcoms and made jokes and just generally caught up. Rose talked about a girl she was sort-of-maybe-possibly seeing, and Jade went on and on about her archaeology classes. You talked about the winter semi-formal you played DJ for, and John talked about how much he liked his biology teacher.

Everything was normal. And you weren't sure how you felt about that. It was definitely better than at least some of the alternatives. When you'd first gotten that call, you'd assumed he'd look like he'd just dragged himself out of hell, or worse, didn't make it at all. That wasn't the case, which was good. And yet, selfish as it was, you had intended for that night to go very differently. You'd wanted something to change, and nothing did. And you'd hated yourself for the fact that you were thinking about that at all when he was recovering from getting hit by a fucking car.

And that's why, the day before his mandatory two weeks were up, you excused yourself to go buy a coffee, at what your friends assumed to be the hospital café. Instead, you went at the restaurant that you'd been at the night that it had happened.

Roxy, the waitress who'd taken you to the hospital, stayed with you until he'd woken up and fallen back asleep, and slipped out when you began dozing in the chair next to him, recognized you immediately upon your entrance. She'd walked over to a woman with curly black hair and glasses, talked very quietly with a lot of hand gestures, then walked over to you.

"Hey, Dave," she'd said, smiling broadly.

"Hi," you'd murmured back, not to be rude, but because you'd suddenly felt very, very tired.

"My 'boss'—"she'd said, making little air quotes with ringed fingers, "—says I can take some time off right now. Want some lunch?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Let's talk, then."

"I should actually probably go," you'd told her weakly. She'd scoffed.

"Nice try, Dave." She'd steered you over to a table near the corner, sat you down in a chair, and pulled up a seat across from you. Then she'd studied you, her earlier bright smile replaced with a serious expression. You'd felt like she'd been x-raying you, seeing all the feelings you were hiding from your friends, and it wasn't a very pleasant feeling.

"David Strider," she'd mused. "How are you?"

"Fine." You'd fidgeted a little in your seat, but she if she'd noticed, she hadn't shown it.

"Hm…" she'd said, and then leaned forward. You'd been pretty sure she'd been looking straight into your eyes, despite your sunglasses.

You'd squirmed. It hadn't been anything personal; you were just uncomfortable with strangers trying to get a good look at you without an invitation. It wasn't as if Roxy hadn't deserved one—she had. It was just…she hadn't yet gotten it, and so you were uncomfortable.

"Dave," she'd said. "Do you know why I helped you out?"

"Out of the kindness of your heart?"

"Well, yes, that too, but also because I recognized you."

You'd studied her, trying to tell if she was being serious or not. You couldn't really tell, but you'd thought she was being sincere.

"I…I don't recognize you," you'd said cautiously, trying not to sound like you were accusing her. She'd smiled.

"Oh, we've never met before. But you look a lot like your brother."

Then it clicked. You'd gasped. "You know bro?"

Her smile had gotten wider. "We were best friends when we were younger. We lived in this out in the middle of nowhere place, the only kids around. I'm not going to forget his face anytime soon. You look like him."

You'd looked down. "He's never mentioned you," you'd said quietly. And she'd nodded sadly.

"Dirk and I…we both fell in love with the same person, once," she'd said, and you wondered if it might be the woman who Roxy doesn't take seriously as her boss. "It shouldn't have been a big deal, but we were young…I hadn't spoken to him in a few years."

"Oh." Wow. You couldn't imagine that. You'd figured you'd never leave John's side just because you both fell for someone, you think. Though it was a bit hard to imagine, because you were pretty sure that John wasn't going to fall in love with himself, and you couldn't imagine liking someone else. You'd never really liked anyone before—at least, not as much as you liked John…

"I called him the night I took you. You were kind of sleeping," she'd said, tacking on the last part slightly apologetically. "I told him I found you and that John was hurt. He was concerned. He said he didn't want you to know he knew about what had happened, but that he wanted you to try getting help and that he'd pay for it. Getting help, being, seeking therapy. I was going to go find you at the hospital today, actually, if you hadn't conveniently walked in."

You'd tried to process what she'd said. "John was the one in the accident, not me."

"Yeah."

"So—so why does he think _I _need therapy? I'm fine."

She'd smiled at you—and it wasn't the stupid, sympathetic one every other adult had given you since this stupid thing had happened—it was understanding, like, actually.

"The man," she'd said, "Who your brother and I both fell completely for; died." Her stare had intensified. "I sought out therapy and encouraged Dirk to, too. He refused."

You'd wanted to ask her what about what had happened as a result, but you'd realized, you knew. Or at least, you'd had a guess. You _had_ grown up with him. That whole business with the smuppets, and the swords…you'd always taken it as a symbolic extension of your continuous battle of one-upmanship. But what if it hadn't been?

"You grew up with him," she'd said, vocalizing your thoughts, and her voice growing soft. "I drink occasionally, now, but you know what he's like."

"Is that why he wants me to 'get help'? So that I don't end up like him?" you'd asked, your voice cracking. She'd looked at you sadly.

"Maybe. I don't know. I think he knows you look up to him. But I think he wants you to be better than he is. I think he thinks you have the potential to be a better man than him."

You'd rubbed your eyes from underneath your glasses, and she'd, understandingly, looked away. When your eyes were red but cloaked once again, she'd turned back to you and handed you a card.

"This…this place is good. They'll help you."

You'd taken a look at it. It was in the same wing as where John was hospitalized. Not out of the way or anything.

"Thanks," you'd said. Then you'd realized that she'd done a lot for you—especially for the little brother of a man she hasn't seen for years. You'd pulled out your wallet, and tried to hand her some money for the coffee you didn't pay for on the night of the accident. She'd looked surprised.

"What's this for?" she'd asked.

"For the coffee," you'd told her. Her eyebrows had crinkled, and she'd laughed.

"Dave, you're sweet. But no. Keep your money."

You'd hesitated for a second, then nodded and put the bills back into your wallet, not wanting to press it. Then you'd stood up.

"Thanks, Roxy. Thanks for everything. I'm going to go see John now," you'd told her.

"Anytime, sweetie!" she tells you. "And don't forget, you should look into therapy! There's no shame in that!"

You'd nodded at her, though you were pretty sure you weren't going to. Then you'd walked out of the restaurant.

Bro had loved someone and lost someone. Bro had had a really good childhood friend. Thinking back on it, you'd wondered how much you actually knew about bro? He'd never really talked about his past.

Bro had wanted you to be a better man than him. He didn't want you to make the same mistakes he'd made.

You'd taken a shaky breath. You'd always thought people who needed therapy were weak—that wasn't necessarily bad, but you'd never considered yourself weak. But if bro had thought getting therapy could make your stronger…

Then you'd shook your head. You were fine. There was nothing wrong with therapy, but you didn't need it. You were fine.

You'd set off for the hospital, and in a few minutes, re-entered John's room.

"What took you?" Rose had asked, smirking slightly, but also looking slightly worried. You'd shrugged.

"I wanted to take a walk. Did I miss anything?"

"Only Rose admitting that she—" Jade had started, but Rose had clamped a hand over her mouth.

You had looked skeptically from Jade to Rose, then laughed and sat down. John looked at you a little strangely for a moment, but then you'd told a joke, and naturally, Jade and John had burst into laughter and Rose had groaned. Everything was normal.

You were fine.

You didn't need therapy.

You were fine.


End file.
